


Winchester's Shop For All Things Witch And Wiccan

by NightcoreFan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ...Please, Angels, BAMF Dean, But there's still the whole supernatural, Creature Dean, Demons, I'll be adding things as I go, Magic, Non-Human Dean, That sells "obscure" items, To be honest I don't know, What am I doing?, and then loosely interpreted, because the internet can only do so much, dean owns a shop, don't knock it till you try it, shop au, technically, the magic is actually researched
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightcoreFan/pseuds/NightcoreFan
Summary: “DEAN! DEAN, NO!”“C’MON SAMMY, HE’S GONE. WE NEED TO GO!”“NO, DAD. WE CAN’T JUST LEAVE HIM THERE!”“I SAID C’MON!”At the ripe old age of 18, Dean was left for dead after hunting a werewolf. His chest ripped to shreds and his family nowhere to be seen. His fate is sealed.A few years later finds a heavily scarred Winchester, alive and well, selling spells, curses and monster parts to the creatures he once hunted. No longer as human as his family remembers.John still hunts the things that killed his wife and son. Sam is still running from the life that ruined his childhood and killed his brother, until the death of the love of his life sends him running right back into the thick of it all.Lets just say the reunion gets just a little bit explosive.





	1. A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> So... my second go at a Supernatural fic. Comments and kudos are always loved!
> 
> Welp, hope you enjoy!

Dean didn’t pay any attention to the demon that had slipped into the shop; really only briefly acknowledging the presence of a customer before focusing back on the scales sat on the counter.

They’d had weirder pop in every now and again, looking for some rare ingredient for some even rarer spell they wouldn’t talk about. Like he gave a crap about what or who they were cursing, Dean just didn’t want to lose a customer ‘cause they blew themselves up using the wrong freakin’ kind of unicorn hair.

It’s bad for business y’know.

 At least demons gave a little excitement on the few occasions they did need something, some of the greatest hagglers out there, really made you work for the payment. Though slippery little bastards when they think they can get away with it.

He swore roughly under his breath as the Afanc scale sliced into his finger, right through the leviathan-hide (the shed, sea serpent kind, god forbid them ever managing to getting anything more than teeth of God’s first children) gloves. Thankfully it hadn’t gone deep enough to draw red; it’d be a waste of a scale if his blood got absorbed be the thing. The poison was also a dick to nullify if it spread through the body.

With a frustrated sigh, the 25 year old placed the last scale into the crystal container, ready to be put on display on the ancient oak shelves behind his place at the counter.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Lifting his head, Dean appraised the snarky being before him. Short, stout, old and hairy, not the usual meatsuit their kind preferred. Not nearly as “pretty” as most others he’d seen. In Dean’s opinion, they went a bit far with the whole “7 sins” thing… Overly proud wasn’t an attractive look on anyone.

He let out a low, impressed whistle as his eyebrows rose.

“Looks like we got some royalty in here. What happened to ya usual goffer’s? Managed to get themselves ganked?” Dean started, removing the suffocating gloves and placing the boxes of murky-blue scales on the display shelves.

“Prefer to do my own shopping; don’t want the poor fools to get any ideas. Though that was impressive, most don’t recognise the king of the crossroads by sight alone… how’d you do it?”

The British accent added a further note of snarky sarcasm to the sentence. But the question was awarded a conspiratorial grin. As he leaned forward, Dean tapped lightly at the skin underneath his left eye. The silver iris and pupil, looking dead and blind as it had for the past three years, shimmered for a second before settling again.

“Payment from Ma’at for a pretty big order a while back, lets me see the true form of whatever I look at. Pretty handy for a job like this.” He quickly straightened back up and crossed his arms. “But that ain’t what you’re here for. So what can I do for ya?”

The demon hummed appreciatively, “I do love a bit of professionalism. I had heard that this was the best place to get the more… obscure. But to be doing business with the gods themselves? It’s admirable.” A piece of paper appeared in hand, “I need a couple things for a spell of mine.”

Dean read down the list he had been given, brow furrowing at the amount of volatile ingredients. He hoped this demon knew what he was doing else there’ll be one less section of Hell with this mix.

  * Soma – 6 leaves
  * Manticore nails – 3
  * Unicorn horn – 1 (powdered)
  * Ghost tears – 2 drops
  * Angel fe-



“Angel feathers?” Dean asked incredulously, his eyes bearing down into the Crossroad King’s. “What the hell kind of spell are you doing that needs friggin’ angel feathers?”

                The other simply tutted in mock disappointment, “Didn’t you know, a lady never reveals her secrets. Trust me, it isn’t any of your concern.”

                A harsh sigh escaped the shop-keep; Dean rubbed his forehead in the vain hope it would dissipate the growing headache. He wished these people, supernatural or otherwise, would actually do the smart thing and get a proper consultation. This is something he’s trained in, and yet almost every customer seems to think they know better than him.

                “Look you Prick, at least tell me the age and origin of the damn spell. The older ones need a proper specialist to have a look. We had a case a while back where the witch thought she needed Hell-hound fur, when she actually needed Cŵn Annwn fur. But thanks to the translation from the Celtic spell, she ended up minus half her body and raised any dead within a mile from the spell site!”

                Dean felt his anger rise at the patronising look he was getting. If it didn’t mean pissing off one of Hell’s royalty, Dean would have socked the guy. Hell, he was still considering it.

                “I think I have that sorted, considering it is my mother’s spell. I have all the specialists I need, I just need the ingredients. Now, if you could.”

                “Fine. Fine.” Dean waved dismissively, if the demon thought he had it sorted, then who was he to keep him from blowing himself up. Payment was payment after all. “It’s gonna be pretty pricey, but something tells me you knew that.”

                Making sure the wards and seals were in place, Dean made his way to the main storage with the list and a basket to carry the order. Most was in stock, and it only took a quick trip to the green house to get the rest. The basket gripped in his right hand getting heavier with each addition.

                “Why the fuck does it need to be this heavy?” Dean murmured to himself as he moved his way back into the shop-front.

                The demon wasn’t where Dean had left him, instead the Royal was browsing the multitude of herbs, bones and other odds and ends that were safe to keep out for the more tame customers.

                “You have a good selection here. I didn’t know you could even get this many Demon bones.” Dean would’ve had to have been an idiot to miss the sharp suspicious glare he was given. “I don’t have to worry, do I?”

                _Newbies_ , Dean thought with an audible snort.

                “Any Demon bones we have were either freely given as payment, or were already too dead to get permission from. So unless you’re willing to give me your bones, I won’t be touching them.”

                With practiced hands, the freckled man packed away the order and mentally calculated the worth of it all together. He added one last protection rune to the cheap wooden box and looked back to his customer.

                “So what are you willing to give in payment?” He asked simply. Best not give a Demon an idea of the true worth, or they won’t go anywhere over it for a decent profit.

                “I’m the King of the Crossroads, so how about I make a deal. In exchange for those ingredients, I’ll grant you any one wish… within reason of course.”

                Dean raised an eyebrow at the offer. He had taken favours like this in the past from Demons much lower on the totem pole, but despite the power the Crossroads King, it wasn’t enough for the payment. And the Demon knew it.

                Suppressing a smirk, Dean countered, “As much as a wish would be nice, I’ll be needing something a bit more substantial and tradable within the near future.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the wooden countertop. “Let’s say fifty damned souls, all of which have to have experienced Hell for at least seventy years but have yet to fully turn into demon, and six new-born hellhounds, recently weaned and at least three need to be in full health.”

                “Twenty-five souls and the six hellhounds.”

                “Who do you take me for? Forty-five souls, with the seventy years in Hell, and eight hounds, three in full health, all recently weaned. Take one of the offers I’ve given, or there will be no deal. You’re already getting these cheaper than anywhere else.”

                “Very well. Done.”

                Dean smirked as the Demon flinched. The binding spell burning itself onto the Demon’s soul, making itself known to the visible world through a branding, looking similar to a pentagram to an untrained eye, on the right hand of the customer.

                “Just to let you know, that spell circle will stay until payment, which must be within the next six months, else your very being will be forfeit as payment instead. What we choose to do with you if are unable to pay will be up to us and you will have no power to stop us from taking anything until you pay off what you owe. So thank you for shopping at Winchester’s shop for all things Witch and Wiccan, and we hope to see you again soon!”


	2. True Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where everything changed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope you like this chapter. Let me know if you spot any mistakes or just wanna have a little chat!

_“DEAN! DEAN, NO!”_

_“C’MON SAMMY, HE’S GONE. WE NEED TO GO!”_

_“NO, DAD. WE CAN’T JUST LEAVE HIM THERE!”_

_“I SAID C’MON!”_

 

Dean woke.

Which was, in of itself, a complete surprise. Considering the last he checked, he had been a werewolf’s freakin’ midnight snack, minus a heart and everything. And wasn’t that one hell of a trip; watching as your own heart is ripped out your chest. Not being given the time to pass out before your damn organs dripped blood onto your face, only just registering the strange state of _not having a fucking heartbeat_ and then slipping into oblivion.

And it did happen. There was no way in the ever loathing hell it had just been a dream. Even now he could feel the sharp burn of claws tearing into flesh, the snapping of his ribs crushed under the weight of the werewolf’s grip, the stretching ache of hollowness as his heart was removed. The sound of his skin shredding under the sheer strength was echoing deep in his ears; and the blood that had choked him and escaped through gritted teeth could still be tasted at the back of his throat.

Which begs the question,

“How the fuck am I alive?” He rasped.

 The world around his prone form blurred through heavy eyes, stinging from his dehydrated state. What he could see was a mass of mixed colours, both bright and bland, reminiscent of those cartoons attempt at show someone tripping balls. There was the musty smell of old books, of which he was familiar from the hours spent in libraries researching, and dry spices hiding under the vaguely stale air.

“So you’re finally up?” unseeing eyes darted to where the deep feminine voice originated.

Dean was only just able to make out the green clothing of the moving figure, cursing his lack of vision and awareness. His body was too sore and weak to defend or demand answers, despite every hunter instinct screaming at him to _move_. He was well and truly fucked.

“You sure took your time. I mean, the transition usually takes a few days to properly settle in, but I’ve never seen it take a whole two weeks before… Be a good boy and drink this for me.”

A slim hand slid its way under his head, tipping it so it hovered a few inches above the flat pillow, and a cold ceramic cup was placed at his lips. Water flew down Dean’s throat, being franticly accepted by the boy’s parched body, soothing away the rough sick feeling of dehydration.

The voice of his father warning him about unknown people and unknown drinks was buried under the need to survive. Not that he could have done anything if he had listened. Dean was in no condition to do anything but lie there and depend on the stranger.

“There we go. I bet that feels real good.”

As the last drop dripped down his throat, Dean could feel his body regaining strength. His eyesight cleared slowly, allowing him to see the dark braids, littered with colourful beads, hanging just above his nose.

“What the…” Dean started, unable to fully understand what was going on.

“I found you, left out in the woods, practically in pieces. Honestly, werewolves these days have no sense of restraint. But luckily for you, there was enough of you left for me to put back together, though it wasn’t easy. You better thank me.”

Dean’s face wrinkled, his sluggish brain working hard to process the words spoken to him.

“How… how did you save me? My heart was torn out! I looked like I had gone one on one with Freddy Krueger! There’s no way I could’ve come back from that!”

“Not by normal means, I’ll give you that.” The woman sat onto the old wicker rocking chair next to his bed that Dean swore hadn’t been there a second earlier. “But you’ll come to understand that, whilst I am many things, normal is certainly not one of them.”

Dean stared incomprehensively at the cup of tea that had suddenly appeared in the woman’s hands. It was one of those fancy china ones too, just pooping out of nowhere, steaming like it was freshly made.

“What the hell kind of hoodoo bullshit did you put on me?” Dean whispered. His hands clenched the blanket, his anger was rising steadily under the numb relief of _holy shit I’m not dead._

“Just ‘cause I’m black doesn’t mean it’s hoodoo. I practice magic from all different cultures.” The woman scolded before waving her hand, “I just replaced your heart and any other organs too damaged to fix, stitched up your skin where I could and patched up the parts I couldn’t. Your bones managed to heal themselves with a little assistance so there’s not much to say about them.”

The young man blinked slowly, trying to wrap his mind around the fact most of the organs inside him were no longer his. Within a split second of panic, he raised his shirt and ripped off the pink stained bandages wrapped around his torso, only to freeze at the sight revealed.

The stitches were neat, neater than anything the Winchester’s could do; made from some kind of silver material that (for God’s sake!) shimmered under some unseen light. They were **everywhere**.

They criss-crossed around his stomach and spread out across his chest like a weird magical spider’s web, even stretching over shoulders and arms and heading below the start of his pants. The silver managed to not pull or stretch despite Dean’s harsh panting. They pulled the multitude of scraps of mottled skin and patches of… brightly coloured, flesh-like… stuff together.

Dean placed a hesitant hand on the large patch of orange ( _friggin hell! What?!)_ that covered his heart. It… felt like normal skin; it was warm and smooth, with a layer of sweat and even had the freckles that had been pasted on his skin his whole life.

“Yes.” Dean’s head shot back up to the woman, still holding his shirt to his neck. “I’m afraid I didn’t have much of a selection when it came to the whole…” she flicked her hand in lieu of explaining, “healing you thing.”

“What?!”

“Well, I didn’t have much of a choice, you didn’t have much time and I figured you’d prefer to be alive with not so human parts than dead whilst missing many of your human parts.”

“What the hell lady?! Who the hell are you? What the hell have you put in me?!” Dean practically screamed, his clenched hands straining the grey material of his borrowed shirt.

The lack of reaction riled the young hunter further, but before he could spew out another round of curses, the woman spoke.

“My name’s Dyani. And what I have done boy, is save your life. So there better be less of this yelling and more thanking me and your stars that I ever found you. I don’t just go ‘round healing people willy-nilly y’know. Now, before I tell you exactly what I put in you, I want your name.”

“…Dean… Winchester.”

The anger was starting to dissipate, revealing the feeling of despair that fogged his mind. Shit what was his dad gonna say what was his dad gonna do? Dean wasn’t human anymore his dad was gonna hate him gonna kill him because Dean was a monster now. He wasn’t supposed to exist needed to be put down before he started munching of some poor bastards brain and Sammy-

Oh fuck Sammy.

The kid would be disgusted with what Dean had become. Dean was now something so far from normal  Hate him and deny ever having a brother.

Shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit FUCKING SHIT!

“Oi, Dean!”

Said boy’s head snapped back into reality, the oncoming panic bubbling under his ( _not-human)_ skin. Threatening to burst out the second he showed any kind of weakness.

“C’mon kid. I didn’t save you for you to go off yourself with a panic attack. There we go.” Dyani sat back down; relaxing the second Dean started breathing normally.

“I can’t go back. He’ll kill me.” Dean rasped, voice thick as it dripped from his numb lips and eyes begging.  “I don’t want to die.”

“Well then. I was thinking about getting some help. Dean, welcome to Dyani’s Shop for All Things Demonic and Diabolical. I’m sure we’ll get along great.”


	3. The Winchester Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... It's been a while... To be honest I planned on getting this chapter out earlier, but exam season is on its way (It's in June but anyway) so I've suddenly had an influx of work and essays and (because I can't say no) taster sessions to get kids to come to my college.
> 
> Yeah. 
> 
> But anyway, hope this one's as good as you guys think the others were and I would love any comments and kudos you're willing to give (seriously I thrive on talking to people)

His father sat stoically in the driver’s seat, ignoring him with the same tensed jaw he’d had for nearly six hours now. In all that time not a single word had passed between them.

Sam glared at the truck’s glove box. Not that he could really see it, thanks to the darkness of 3AM, but the sentiment was there all the same. It felt almost juvenile, going through the same motions he had done years before, although in a completely different vehicle. But he had nowhere else to direct his rage and was sick and tired and could not be assed to consider calming down.

It had been a week since… Jess… died.

He had been through all the emotions, the fear, the despair and the anger. It burned almost physically down into his very bones, infecting cell after cell with grim fury. He had spent hours flipping between tearing his hair out and wanting to tear someone else’s head off. There were few moments of clarity where he, frankly, had no idea how he hadn’t killed or been killed at this point.

The sight of her, stuck up there, her last breath on her lips and then burning. The peeling of skin as it charred and shrank, the yellow liquid dripping through the cracks… It turned his stomach and rattled his heart every time the image tore into his head, which was pretty much 24/7.

His dad was hardly any help. The hard-ass could barely express emotions, never mind helping someone else through one hell of a shit show. The most he did was give Sam a couple of beers and an awkward hand on the shoulder, but Sam could see the look of “Man up, we got a creature to kill” the oldest Winchester would direct every time Sam couldn’t keep his emotions in check.

Why the hell was their family so cursed?

“Did you know it was going to happen?” He forced out, somehow supressing the rage beneath his skin.

“What?” The eldest Winchester spat. The faux-leather of the steering wheel whined under the man’s grip and a hint of teeth could be seen in his snarl.

“Jess. Did you know that thing was going to go after her? ‘Cause your timing was freakishly spot on for getting me out of there-”

He cut himself off before he could finish, knowing that was too far, even for him. But they both knew exactly what he was about to say.

_It was almost like you wanted her to burn._

“What do you want me to say Sam?” John growled, but there was an echo of exhaustion behind it. “Yes, I knew it was heading towards you, but I had no idea it was gonna attack you or your girl! But we both know whatever I say won’t be good enough.”

The bearded man rubbed his face with a stiff, worn hand. The mostly healed burns, from pulling his son from being burned alive, adding even more scarring to his hands twinged at the rough treatment.

“You’ve been hunting this thing for as long as I can remember, but all I’ve learned this week is that you’re no closer to knowing what that thing is or what it wants than you were 22 years ago!” Sam finally turned his incredulous glare to his father. “All these years and what exactly have you accomplished?!”

“I’ve done good work as a hunter! Important work! I’ve saved God knows how many lives from the supernatural fucks that creep in the dark! I’ve sacrificed plenty to keep other families from being torn apart like ours.” John spat his words with a dark confidence, his pride wounded from his son’s careless accusation.

“So Dean was just an acceptable sacrifice to you?”

Sharp blasts of air were forced out of the men’s mouths as John slammed his foot onto the brake, the vehicle squealing its complaints as it slowed rapidly. With practiced hands, the Winchester patriarch forced the behemoth of a truck to stay stationary in the middle of the road.

“You don’t get to say shit like that, Sam. Not to me. Not about _him_.”

John’s body was tensed, the struggle of keeping marginally calm dragging pants of effort from his lungs. But of course, for all that Sam was a genius, he never  

“So what? I’m not even allowed to talk about my brother who _you-_!”

“Sam! For the last time, SHUT YOUR TRAP!”

For once in his life, Sam kept his mouth closed.

The air was thick with anger and caution, on both sides. Neither could look the other in the eye, or at all really, knowing the second they did they’d trample the fine line they had subconsciously respected for years.

Minutes passed by in that uneasy truce.

“There’s never a day that I don’t think about him.” John ground out. “That I don’t regret forcing him on that hunt with us. But what else can I do Sam?”

“Why did you?” Sam tried to keep his voice understanding, and failing if the flinch from his father was any indication. “Why make did you make him come when…”

“When he was sick?” John finished. “God Sam, I didn’t think it was that bad. I thought he’d be fine once he got moving… I shoulda realized the second he said he felt like crap. Dean never told me when he wasn’t feeling well.”

“I wonder why.” Sam muttered under his breath.

John sighed roughly, “You don’t understand Sam. After… after your mom died, Dean became like a rock. To both of us. He helped look after you, and tried to give me all the comfort he could. Never asking for anything and taking everything we offered. I guess in my mind, he became superhuman, like no matter what happened, he would always be there. So when that werewolf managed to overpower him… God knows what was going through my head. Even now, I’ll go into a motel room expecting him there, cleaning the weapons or making food or _something_.”

* * *

 

“Planning on digging up some buried treasure there, captain?” The shorter man somehow managed to tease around the large piece of candy he had shoved in there a few seconds prior. “That’s one hell of a cutlass you got there.”

Dean grinned at the god, hands still expertly cleaning the (as his friend called it) “one hell of a cutlass” despite his eyes not going anywhere near the blemished blade.

Said god was leaning casually against the aged wood of the shop’s counter, chewing happily on one of the many conjured candies he created. To most people, he looked like an average (if slightly handsome) man, but thanks to his left eye, to Dean he looked like a human shaped glow worm printed with runes of the ancient Scandinavian religion mapping out the qualities of the god.

“Loki, have to say it’s been a while. If you’re here to get your brother’s hammer back, I’m afraid it’s already been sold and you should tell the dude not to bet something that important even if he thinks he’s sure to win.” Dean bantered as usual. He, like any other time he saw his friend, ignored the small clump of shadows protruding from his back.

“Ha!” Loki snorted. “You shoulda seen the crap he got into with Odin thanks to that, trust me, I ain’t gonna touch that with a ten foot pole.”

 A single eyebrow raised itself, “Says the man who told Odin about his son’s gambling habits.” The knowing grin slipped into its usual place.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Slipping in another sphere of sugar into his mouth.

“If you say so, Trickster. Though you’d be a disgrace to kind if you did pass up such a glorious opportunity.”

The Shop Keep finally paused in his restoration of the blade and brought it to eye-level, a fogged critical glare reflected back. The vague impressions of art engraved into the metal of the blade spoke of a master blacksmith considering the age and intricate patterns swirling along the duller edge of the Cutlass.

“Oi, I been at this for three days, get over yourself and work with me here. I ain’t got forever and I swear to the mystical forces if I have to spend another freakin’ day polishing your ass, I will melt you down into toilet parts.”

A beat passed.

Loki stared at his friend in part amusement and part concern. There was very rarely a reason for people to start talking to swords, but Dean (and his predecessor Dyani) always had a reason for everything they did.

The trickster blinked in surprise when the gouges, discoloured splodges and all-round shabby nature of the blade faded from existence. Leaving behind a beautiful example of European Cutlass.

“Oh. Weird shape for a Japanese spirit sword, but I guess they’re so rare it’s better than nothing.” Loki observed, only now sensing the suppressed soul forged within the metal.

The mortal placed the blade on the counter and began gathering herbs and crystals placed around the shop floor. He seemingly dumped them into a large metal tub with no rhyme or reason, not stirring nor mixing the ingredients in any way.

All the while continuing his conversation.

“That’s because it’s not Japanese. It’s Spanish. From what I can tell, one of only thirty in the world.” He stated, then sniffed the thumb sized jar filled with a shimmering purple liquid, shrugged and threw it into the tub, glass and all.

“Geez, who’s got the others?” He eyed the sulking (no seriously what? The thing was sulking from being told off) Cutlass with new appreciation. It was rare for something as old as he to come across an object he had no knowledge of.

Dean paused in the middle of his impromptu cooking session to send a cocky grin accompanied with a grin.

“Me. Of course.”


	4. Friends and Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait and the short chapter, hopefully the actual content will make up for the short word-count!
> 
> Welp, hope you enjoy and remember, kudos and comments will be loved!

** Then **

Dyani’s crappy - “It’s aged, Dean. Stop disrespecting my furniture!” - crappy door flew open with a lot more flair than the door should have been able to stand. Honestly, piece of crap looked like it was made back before Christianity was a thing and was uglier than the monkfish they had to take apart almost daily.

(Who knew the toothy pancakes had so many magical and medicinal properties?)

Dean, not jumping from the sudden explosion of noise and movement thanks to the endless amount of customers Dyani had with the same habit, stared at the decrepit excuse for a door in anticipation, fingers crossed as tightly as he could. Maybe today? Maybe this time?

Only for the hunk of wood to stay intact.

Sighing in disappointment, Dean went back to focusing on dousing his bare chest with the minty smelling -Potion? Medicine? Remedy? - creation Dyani made to protect his new chunks of flesh from infection or rejection.

Apparently going all Frankenstein wasn’t a quick fix. Who knew?

The healing process had actually finished about a couple of weeks before, after a good three months of pain, weirdness and strange smelling medicines that Dean _still_ had nightmares about. But both Dean and Dyani wanted to be completely sure the mosaic that was now his body stayed as healthy as they could keep it. Defying death is always a hell of a lot easier the first time round and tempting fate was not something the practitioners made a habit of.

“Helloooooooo- what the fuck?!”

Dean raised his gaze to the loud customer, not even trying to hide the horror-show that was his body.

Being a hunter, even if he barely counted as one now, scars were par for the course and something you just accepted as part of the job. Even his father had had a multitude of wormy little scars where he wasn’t quite fast enough. There was no point hiding it, especially considering the splintered silver lines stretching across his body reached even up to his jaw.

“Welcome, what can I do for you today?” Dean deadpanned, dabbing the last of the treatment up his neck.

“What can you do-? Like you can do anything! Kid, you’re made of so many monsters and creatures, I’m surprised you haven’t exploded yet!”

The shorter man, (wait, was he a man? Shit, he should have paid more attention to Dyani’s lectures) bounced almost spastically as he exclaimed his shock. To be honest, he looked like an average Joe. Brown hair and eyes, not obviously attractive, but not ugly in any sense of the word and was even at an average height even if it was at the lower end of the spectrum. If he had passed him on the streets, Dean wouldn’t have given the guy any thought. But of course this was Dyani’s shop, and every single person who stepped through that piece of crap door was _different_ to put it nicely.

(Ha, see Dyani, he did listen to the “sensitivity lecture”.)

“Really Loki, I wouldn’t have expected you of all people to go doubting my ability.” Dyani spoke, appearing out of thin air, resting a heavily tattooed hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Trust me, Dean here is miles away from any danger of exploding, I made sure of that.”

A god?! This goofy dude was a trickster god? What? The few (very few, they didn’t exactly all live in the US) that he had met were the very definition of overcompensating. The men were big, beefy and wouldn’t look out of place on the front of a magazine, even the older looking ones. And the women were so drop-dead gorgeous that Dean had actually witnessed a _vampire_ drop dead in the middle of the store because they happened to take one look!

At least there weren’t any bodily fluids to clean up.

“Oh,” Loki started, “Oh! So this is the rumoured apprentice you’ve taken on? I have to admit, I thought it was all just Bull. Last I heard, you refused to tell anyone any of your spells and whatever else it is you do.”

Dyani simply smiled and went to retrieve Dean’s discarded shirt, continuing the conversation as she kept herself busy.

“Really now, it’s not so surprising. My secrets are my own, and now that Dean is mine, he is free to learn everything I have to offer.”

“Right. Free.” Dean scoffed, carefully slipping the shirt over the sensitive skin. “That why you tied me to a chair and practically shoved the history of famous magic users down my neck last week?”

“Oh, shush.” She reprimanded, slapping the young man’s shoulder. “You signed up for it the second you agreed to be my apprentice.”

“You just wanted free labour.”

“Well, there is that.” She joked, a fond expression creeping onto her face as their familiar banter warmed the room. “Now, I’ve got to head out, we’re running low on chicken feet and the usual guy said, and I quote, “I want nothing to do with your freaky witchy shit” which is just insulting, our magic has nothing to do with witches or demons, honestly. But it means I’ll be out longer than usual. Toodle-loo!”

And with that, she was gone, leaving no sign that she had ever been there. Knowing the woman though, Dean was pretty sure she was already off on her errand and the person he had been talking to was simply her shade.

Sighing at his mentor’s abrupt departure, the young man turned back to the god.

“So, what do you want? Do you have like a list or something?” He started.

“No, no. We can get to that later. I want to talk about all the juicy stuff.” The Scandinavian god placed his elbows on the countertop, hands supporting his head. “I want to know all about how you got THE Dyani to take you on, and the whole story behind you becoming one of the Patchwork Pals. Cause I gotta admit, I’ve never seen anything like you before.”

“None of your business and none of your business, full offence intended. Now are you gonna get something or not?” Dean snapped, exhaustion already pulling at his bones.

“Touchy, touchy.” Loki raised his hands in a mock surrender. “Fine, I’ll stop asking. But I will find out, you have my word.”

“So…”

“Oh yeah, I need the blood of a dragon for a little spell of mine. I’m willing to exchange it for my own blood, equal exchange and all that.”

“Deal.”

 

 

 

** Now **

 “Hey.” Loki began, fiddling with an ancient Mayan knife. “Remember when we first met?”

He turned his head to look at his not-so-human friend which was a feat and a half considering the god was lying with his back on the counter and his head hanging limp off the edge, acting as comfortable as ever on the lumpy wood.

“No.” Dean replied, relaxing in Dyani’s old rocking chair with his staple Sage and Rue tea. “What about it?”

“Nothing, just remembering how much of a dick you used to be.”

“You sure you haven’t mixed up your memories, Lo? Cause I’m pretty sure it was you who was the dick.”

“You just said you didn’t remember.”

“…Why are we talking about this? You’re acting like a lovesick newlywed.”

“Aw, I knew you loved me. You even want to get married.”

“I was wrong, you’re still a dick.”

* * *

 

“Hey Dad! Bobby just called. Apparently a retired hunter found a shop selling Witchcraft and wanted someone to come check it out.”

“Tell Singer we’re heading there now.”


	5. Fated Meeting (or just the Winchester's shitty luck)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised some of you that this chapter was going to be out sooner than this... but i had a legitimate excuse!
> 
> I was an idiot and fucked up the muscles in my thumb, which then affected the rest of my fingers, which meant no typing for me, which meant a slower update for you guys. (Don't worry, it wasn't anything serious and only took a few days to stop hurting).
> 
> So yeah, here's the new chapter. It did not turn out how I was expecting, but I think it went well all the same!
> 
> So enjoy! Comments and kudos are very much welcomed (is it bad I like talking to strangers on the internet so much? oh well)

Dean glared down into his concoction. The tea-like liquid, filled with as many herbs as he dared, steamed ominously under the influence of his magic stirring it from within. A huge cooking pot, brand new with barely a scratch, was sat on the bench located in the young man’s brewing room deep within the very bowels of his shop.

Ingredients were dotted about the place, each in different stages of preparation for a future spell, either planned or as potential ingredients for experimentation. Along top the walls surrounding the room were runes chained together with a passive earth magic, keeping everything that needed to stay in contained, and blocking any intruders who managed to make it that far into the Winchester’s sanctuary from entering the potentially unstable room.

Whilst the resulting explosion would deal with the intruder, it wasn’t worth losing such a hunk of the building, both underground and not.

“Chopped Bay Laurels,” Dean muttered to himself again, voicing the spell recipe he was creating. “Crushed Mugwort, dried Rosemary, and boiled Basil. Just need some Rue to boost the prophetic magic and maybe some cinnamon to speed it up… but that could cause a violent reaction…”

He tapped the end of his blue pen against the leather apron tied to his body. The old thing was stained with the many times it saved Dean from a nasty burn or a particularly volatile curse that was only a few stages from becoming a blessing for fortune. The thick giant hide (humanely donated by the giant after his natural death, of course) had become a vital part of Dean during his episodes of inspiration.

Sighing, Dean crossed out the cinnamon from his list, deciding the risks weren’t worth the potential explosion. He didn’t want to have to start over, minus his hair and a few layers of skin.

He placed the stem full of rue leaves into the pot, manipulating the airy magic collecting in the liquid to break it down into tiny fragments. A warm glow shimmered through the ripples, brightening up the candle lit room further.

Without so much as a crook of the finger, a long string weighed down with a plethora of Red Agate beads flew across the room to wrap itself around the cooking pots rim. Barely seconds passed before the beads began to glow orange from the yellow light shining deep within the gems, mimicking that of the potion.

“That should stabilise the potion, and keep the connection to the future nice and strong.”

After placing the pen down on his spell crafting book, Dean grabbed his crude handmade ceramic cup (it wasn’t part of the spell, he just liked the thing (it had nothing to do with the fact it had been a present from a customer’s kid, nope)) and scooped himself a good helping.

Taking a deep breath, he breathed the final part of the spell into his cup.

“Nodwch y nant o amser. Cysyll lif y presennol i dyfodol bosibl. Dangoswch fy ffortiwn i mi, boed yn drwg neu fendith.”

***Enter the stream of time. Connect the current flow to a possible future. Show me my fortune, be it evil or a blessing***

The spell didn’t have to be in Welsh, he could’ve chosen any language really – he was the one who created it after all - but there was a kind of power behind such a little spoken language that some considered to be dying.

(No. He did not have a flair for dramatics. Shut up Loki!)

A sinking warmth bloomed behind ribs, encompassing his heart and electrifying every cell. The magic had taken hold.

Dean downed the concoction.

* * *

 

“What has Singer said about this witch shop?” John asked as they entered the town Bobby had directed them to.

The journey had been the easiest between the two of them in years. Though it didn’t say much, seeing as Sam had been on the phone with Bobby and the retired hunter, Jared, for the majority of the drive. The younger man determined to get as much information or theories out of the two men as he could.

Burying his head in work, be it research or schoolwork, was his go to excuse to ignore the world outside his chosen task. It always had been, and it worked so spectacularly it had earned Sam his place at Stanford.

“Not much, we know for a fact it sells witchcraft and has been supplying every kind of spell, ingredient and charm you can think of, to customers Jared has never seen in town before. And considering how small the town is, it would be impossible to not know everyone.”

The younger Winchester tapped his pen against the notepad filled with facts and speculation about the mysterious supernatural hub, humming and hawing at each point scribbled.

“The thing is, Bobby is sure this place has been showing up all over the US, staying until a hunter starts closing in and then just up and disappearing. And he means the whole building, it just vanishes. He’s not certain, since no one has actually learned anything about it-“

“But it’s a pattern. And when Singer’s pretty sure about something, it’s usually right.” John finished. “It means we gotta be careful. Whatever thing is inside that place is powerful, so we need to make sure it doesn’t notice us.”

“It sounds like you already have a plan.”

The elder man nodded and pulled the truck into a motel parking lot, making sure to park in the one spot that was cornered off with a wall. Out of sight from any civilians or cops.

“I got them from a wiccan last year.” He started as he made his way to the back, and pulled out his hunting supplies. “It’s like a witch’s hexbag, but without the demon deal, and, so long as you keep it on you, it hides you from anything supernatural.”

“You sure?” Sam asked, inspecting the rough cloth bag his father had thrown to him.

“I tested it out on a witch up north a while back. The bitch didn’t know I was there until she was already dead.”

* * *

 

“Shit!” Dean exclaimed as he stumbled out of the brewing room, careful not to crush the plants occupying the greenhouse. The last vestiges of the spell leaving him drowsy as all hell. And his mind still in the process of returning to the present.

The journey to his filing room took twice as long as it should have. His rushed stumbling leaving him out of breath, and trying to supress the urge to throw up. All the while cursing himself for his crappy sense of room placing, why did he think it was a good idea to keep the rooms so far apart?

Though, the trip gave him time for his eyes to finally start clearing, making his search much easier now the tenses were no longer doing a psychedelic tango in his retinas.

Wasting no more time, Dean marched to the cupboard crammed into the corner of the tiny room, rapidly knocked five times before yanking the door open.

“Communication scroll.” He demanded to the all-encompassing darkness that swallowed the inner of the furniture.

Barely a fraction of a second passed before a Jade tube was spat out of the shadows and into the man’s hand.

The scroll swiftly removed from its casing, was spread on the oak desk shoved under the only tiny window in the room. The golden film that coated the thin material shimmered violently under the force of Dean’s panicked magic.

“To all the loyal customers of the shop, results of viewing the future was… inconclusive, I guess.” Dean squeezed out, somehow keeping his voice level despite the shakes racketing through his limbs.

“Something is coming, and it ain’t good, but I couldn’t get a good enough read to know exactly what it is. Whatever is messing with my sight is powerful, like wipe a country off the map powerful. So stock up and lock up. God only knows how this is gonna end.”

And with that said, Dean let himself relax. Shoulders slumping and head bowed as he released the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. This whole scenario was different, the bad kind of different, and fuck if he knew what to do.

He packed away the communication scroll, much slower now he had gotten the message out.

Only to groan when the familiar zing of passive magic tapped at his senses.

“Can’t I get just one day where the customers don’t come at an awkward time?”

* * *

 

Sam edged around the, frankly stereotypical, hoodoo shop.

It looked old, like been around for half a century old; with its oak shelving covering all four walls leaving only the counter, door and its front windows (which had floating shelves to let in light) free. Not even the centre of the room was saved from the aged wood, having rows of bones, herbs, crystals, weapons and things Sam couldn’t hope to recognise - never mind name - running throughout the fairly average sized shop.

He held the gun just under eye-line, keeping all senses on high alert on both potential threats and the condition of his father. He didn’t like how quiet the place was, even their own footsteps were muffled more than they should have been. Yeah, the Winchesters were good hunters, but they were only human and were wearing heavy boots.

The door to the deeper parts of the store appeared in sight. Flicking his eyes to connect with his father’s, Sam waited for his lead understanding the gesture to circle around the counter blocking their path.

“Oh great, hunters.”

Bodies spun as guns found themselves pointed at the new presence. Sam’s eyes widened significantly at the sight of the heavily scared man who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than himself. The three braids, heavy with rune engraved beads dangling just in front of the guy’s right ear and a dead eye somehow feeling as it saw more than he ever hoped to, were the only true indicators that the man before them was something not human.

“Now tell me, are you here to kill me or ‘coerce’ me into dealing with gigantor’s Demon blood infection?”

What?!


	6. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been eight years since they last saw one another, now all the remaining Winchesters finally meet face to face.
> 
> It doesn't really go how anyone expects it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yay! I'm not dead! Though halfway through my exams I really thought I was just gonna stress myself out of existence. And I'm now 18, which is terrifying. Who thought it was a good idea to make me an adult? 
> 
> Buuuut. I am back with the next chapter, though I'm not totally happy with it (it just went off on its own and now I'm not sure if it's really worthy of being the "welcome back" chapter) there's just something about it that pisses me off. 
> 
> You can thank Midnight_Ravencrow for the added plot point. It would just not leave me alone and now we have the soon-to-be extra character.
> 
> Like always, any kudos or critical comments (or just general comments) are greatly appreciated!

Sam stared with wide eyes at the creature before him, his gun (filled with silver witch killing bullets) steadily aimed at its chest. His own lungs stuttered at his uneven breathing, his senses going haywire as they readjusted themselves to the sudden presence in the room. Even after years of exposure, the human brain just could not completely accept the existence of the supernatural.

But God did the guy look human, too human really, despite the obvious signs of- well- being not-human. He was only a few inches shorter than Sam himself, classically handsome in the “bad boy actor” kinda way; with his military-cropped dark hair (ignoring the three, shoulder-length braids that were weighed down with intricately carved beads) and frankly buff body. Even his relaxed stance spoke of military training and maybe street fighting despite the look of absolute done-ness that dragged at his frame.

This relatively normal physique of his illuminated the more “not-natural” features littered about his body and clothes. Even at his distance, Sam could see the silver of the creature’s “dead” eye shimmer strangely in the shops warm lighting, it reminded him of mercury almost, liquid and shimmering. The scarring surrounding the eye was unusual too; thick, wiggling lines originating from the very edges of the lids reaching out only a few inches, hardly marring the rest of his face. It looked almost like the beams a child would put around the suns in their drawings.

Focusing so intently at the eye, Sam almost missed the web of scars that peeked out from the earthy long sleeved shirt. They were faint, practically invisible if it weren’t for the paleness being a stark contrast to the tanned skin surrounding them. They stretched up to the jaw, thicker near the jugular but relatively tame in comparison to some of the scars Sam held.

As he studied the creature before him, Sam kept his peripherals focused on his dad. Though barely a minute had passed, his muscles begun to tense as John seemingly refused to take action. Sam wouldn’t move without the man’s lead, but the longer he waited the less patience his son would be able to keep in his grasp.

“Helloooo?” It started, resting it’s elbows on the wooden counter. “Are you gonna shoot? Or talk? Or do anything at all? ‘Cause guys, I’ve got a business to run and two hunters are just gonna scare away the customers.”

It’s eyebrow raised itself leisurely, oozing masked irritability. The thing was mocking them, not scared in the slightest. _Just how powerful was this thing?_

“Dean.”

It was barely a whisper, practically a small puff of air. But in the strained atmosphere of the stand-off, John’s emotion-filled slip of the tongue could have passed as a scream.

Swiftly straightening up, the Shop-Keep lost all sense of composure. His frame switching to the defence as a myriad of emotions flickered across his features at a break-neck speed.

“Dad?” It’s eyes jumped to him. “Jesus… Sammy?!”

Sam tried to stop his mind from seeing the resemblance. He had been successful for the most part, but now with his dad voicing the buried thoughts, the flood of thoughts and feelings started grappling with his body, shaking the gun dangerously in his hands.

As though a switch had been flicked, John’s body language went from cautious to overbearing anger and violence. Holding the gun in only one hand, the older man raced to the counter and dragged the creature half over it, the shirt’s collar bunched up in the man’s unforgiving grip.

“How dare you steal my son’s face.”

* * *

 

Dean just could catch a break, could he? His day was going from bad to worse to un-fucking-believably crap faster than a whore stripped her underwear.

His skin was quickly becoming damp with cold sweat, his lungs working overtime, as he smothers the bubbling magic trying to escape in order to deal with the very frightening threat not even an inch away from his vitals.

Coming face to face with the father who you haven’t seen in years, who left you for dead and would very likely kill anything remotely supernatural (ie HIM) would do that to a dude.

But shit, what did he just say?

“No. No! I swear I’m not stealing anyone’s face. I swear to the Mystics I’m not doing anything to alter my appearance!” Not even thinking about what he was doing, Dean grabbed his father’s wrist. “It’s me, Dad. I swear it’s me.”

“Like hell you are!” The deep growl reverberated around the room as John forced the barrel of his gun against Dean’s chest. “My boy’s dead. Has been for years. So you better stop this shit before I really get pissed.”

Brain racing, Dean tried to think of a way to prove the truth as he struggled to control the shop’s magic now reacting to the fear of it’s owner. The last thing Dean needed right now was the passive energy turning volatile and attacking the last two members of his blood family.

Some days he cursed himself for making the defence systems semi-sentient.

“Look, look. I can prove it!” Dean pleaded, ignoring the (admittedly high) chance of the older man killing him anyway because of what he was. Slowing his hasty breaths, Dean released the grip he had on his dad’s hand and raised his own above his head. “My name’s Dean Winchester, my mother’s name was Mary and yours is John. I have a younger brother called Sammy who’s four years younger than me and when he was a baby something killed our mom and burned our house down. When I was little you called me Deano and mom kept calling me Dean-Bean. You raised us on the road, hunting monsters and saving people and eight years ago you brought me on a hunt when I was sick. I got attacked by a werewolf, but was saved by a passing Wiccan. It’s me. I swear! Dad you gotta believe me!”

The grip on his shirt weakened fractionally, the words somehow managing to pass the famous Winchester stubbornness.

“How… why should I believe you?” John ground out. His features twisted into a cruel mimicry of pain and denial, not that Dean could blame him. There were some nasty motherfuckers out there that wouldn’t hesitate to use a man’s deepest regrets.

“He’s telling the truth.”

John and Dean’s heads shot to focus on Sam, still standing where they had left him, his gun facing the ground with a relaxed grip and the safety on. His face set in a conflicted yet hopeful expression. Somehow, the two managed to forget the giant man’s presence in their “altercation”.

“Dad, he’s not lying. That’s Dean. Our Dean.”

“How the hell-“

“I don’t know, it’s the psychic thing. And I know you said not to use it but I know it’s him.”

A pregnant pause dominated the area. The two hunters communicated through eye contact only and both seemed to be struggling with coming to a decision. Dean just watched on with confusion, his blessed eye getting nothing but Demon blood corruption from Sam and overwhelming rage and lust for vengeance from John. It wasn’t very often an emotion overrode a person’s self-identity, but to think John Winchester could mask everything he was, is and will be with just the two emotions.

It would’ve been impressive if it weren’t _fucking **terrifying.**_

Finally, after what felt like an age, Dean’s shirt was released. As much as he loved his counter, it was in no way comfortable to be dragged over.

“Thank you.” Dean managed to squeeze out.

**_BANG!_ **

**_Jingle!_ **

“Deano, my amigo!”

Dean groaned. Oozing his usual cocky aura whilst also completely disregarding the mood and two hunters, Loki sauntered to the counter. He had something concealed inside the flap of his jacket, around the size of a small football but the careful way the god was holding it suggested something much more valuable. Loki was only ever careful if he thought Dean was gonna love it, which could be anything from a cool-looking octopus the trickster had found, to a jewel never before discovered.

His best friend had crap timing on the best of days, but this was really pushing it.

Now fuelled by a second wind of suspicion, the two humans were once again poised for battle, their guns trained on the newcomer.

“Yeah, we don’t need those.” With a flick of his hand, Loki banished the weapons from the hunters’ grasp. The men’s bodies froze, becoming unnaturally still and solid due to the god’s minor petrification curse. This, along with the nonchalant act, painted their souls with streaks muffled panic.

With a sigh, Dean snapped his fingers. The ambient magic floating in the air jumped to obey and swiftly began closing up shop; locking the doors, flipping the sign and pulling the shadows to black out the windows, leaving the floating crystals circling the ceiling as the only source of natural light. Trust Loki to make matters so much worse.

Deciding to deal with one headache at a time, Dean focused his energy on Loki.

“Look, dude. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m busy right no-”

“Your brother and dick of a father found ya. I do have eyes y’know. But this whole situation has nothing on this baby here.”

A round of mini, illusionary fireworks burst into existence around their heads as Loki pulled out his latest find. Dean had been right about it being football sized and shaped, but that was where the resemblances to the leathery jock magnet ended.

Cushioned in Loki’s hand looked like a giant, perfectly polished, onyx gemstone. Speckles of grey and white were splattered across the surface only outshone by the three rings of white embedded within the colouring. A near replica (though significantly scaled up) of Dean’s go to gem for meditation or mind travel, most likely why it had caught the Trickster’s eye.

However, it was what his left eye revealed that really got Dean’s ass moving.

“Loki… do you have any idea what’s in your hand?” With widened eyes glued to the object’s surface, the Shop-Keep summoned his most durable yellow birch woven basket inscribed with protection runes throughout including a prominent elhaz rune.

“The biggest onyx gemstone you’ve ever seen in such perfect condition?”

“No. Holy shit. Give it here before you fucking break it.”

“Hey! I drop an alligator egg one time.” Despite his words, Loki passed his present with utmost care making sure to also boost his friend’s cushioning charm that was enveloping it. The years spent together allowing them to instantly communicate through body language alone.

“How the fuck did you come across, what’s potentially the last true-blooded dragon egg in all of existence?”

Silence became its own entity in the magically illuminated room. Dean being the source of the only movement and sound as he quickly massaged his homemade heating salve onto the eggs shell whilst simultaneously muttering a litany of protection and health-boosting spells to hopefully save the little creature sealed within.

It was a good few tense minutes before he stepped back with a satisfied smirk; happy in the knowledge that his best friend hadn’t just managed to kill off the last of a species that had previously been classed as extinct. The modern giant lizards were a pale comparison to the true majesty of what once were the kings of the earth before some dick of a wizard “blessed” a sword capable of slaying them in one hit.

Or so Dyani had said in her many… many lessons.

Using the sleeve of his shirt, Dean wiped away the sweat building on his forehead thanks to the exertion and heat radiating off the egg. Looking up to pry the origin of the dragon egg from Loki, Dean’s eyes were drawn to the hunters still frozen in their own personal hell.

“Oh Shit.”

Not only had he just revealed the existence of a dragon to a couple of hunters whose very purpose in life is to kill “monsters”, but he had also blown off the reunion with the last of his family both of which believing him dead for almost a decade.

“Loki, knock ‘em out and put them in the live storage.”


	7. Smoke and Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that, neither I or the story is dead! yay!
> 
> Though to be honest I am feeling really bad for leaving you all for so long even when I promised to be getting back to a more normal schedule no exams are over. I cannot apologise enough, seriously.
> 
> But just so that you understand why (and this isn't an excuse, rather it's an explanation), I've had a bit of a shit year. You all know about the exam thing and the uni thing, but my mum was also ill (she's fine now after months of trips to the hospital. I am so glad healthcare is free here), and we had a little financial problem. It's all better now, but I'm not used to that sort of stress so once it had all passed my mind and body decided to just... flop? I had no energy to do anything but the basics and unfortunately writing isn't basic in the slightest. (I'm trying really hard not to sound attention seeking but I thought you all at least deserved to know)
> 
> I'm getting better, but I can't promise consistent updates.
> 
> Anyway! Enough of the depressing stuff! Here's the next chapter! Big thanks to Suncakes and Casiskween for kicking my butt into gear and actually get some writing done!

** Then **

Dean glared at himself in the mirror. His hands gripped at the sink bowl to support the weight his legs couldn’t handle, though his arms weren’t fairing much better, leaving his frame to shake unsteadily as gasps of air slipped past gritted teeth. Frustration bubbled under his ribs and threatened to smother his lungs, shame setting it to boil hotter and faster.

It had been a month since Dyani (whatever the hell she was, he needed to figure it out) saved him, or resurrected him or whatever it was she did that stopped him from passing to the other side. He had only just gotten permission to escape the prison that was the friggin’ med-bed with its ugly brown and sickly yellow blanket containing so many stains from all sorts of crap (probably all from him, but goddammit he hated the thing and he was gonna take what he could).

“You finished searching for the fairest in the land there, Evil Queen?”

He redirected his glare to the woman leaning on the door frame, trying his best to blame his uncooperative body on her terrible medical assistance. Dyani ignored it as always, instead she raised a familiar tub of some kind of crap that apparently was supposed to speed up the healing process; red lines framed by silver stitching that spanned his whole body said otherwise. They hurt, a lot, more than any of his old stitches ever had. Even standing was a whole new experience in pain as the rips in his skin pulled at their sutures with every movement and his muscles refused to cooperate from stress alone, leaving his body ten steps behind his thoughts.

He had never truly understood the phrase “like walking through syrup” until he had his chest ripped open by a raving werewolf. 0/10 stars, would not do again. Worst experience of his life and leaves you stranded for weeks on end.

“I’m sick of being stuck to the bed like some invalid.” He grunted out as he removed his shirt for easier access, experience let him know that it wouldn’t be worth the pain fighting her off. Not that he’d win anyway.

His saviour guided him to sit on the closed toilet, more for his sake than hers seeing as the lady was almost a head taller than him and had no problem reaching what she needed to. If he didn’t know better, Dean would’ve pegged her as a model with her looks and height, though a bit more exotic with her colourful tattoos of pretty much hundreds of talismans, mystic symbols and stuff he had no hope of naming.

“You are an invalid Kid.” She said, though not unkindly. As she spoke, Dyani painted the pale green mixture onto his injuries with a sponge. “Did you think recovering from an attack like that would be over and done in a few short weeks? It’s a near miracle that you didn’t just up and die right there and then. And to also keep kickin’ after my treatment? I’m good but I’m not perfect. Trust me, you don’t go through stuff like that without feeling the effects for years after.”

Dean suppressed the sour sigh in the back of his throat. Instead he kept his mouth shut, the woman was willing to take him in even after all the shit he’d put her through; and despite the fact she was the one who turned him into a monster, she had saved his life. He could moan and groan all he wanted, but there was that paralysing fear buried under the surface that he would not be able to last even a day without her support.

“Have you been reading those books I left you?” Dyani asked softly, most of her focus on the patchwork of his chest which she was getting all close and personal with. He’d made the mistake of flirting once.

Just the once.

Despite what Sam said, Dean could learn his lesson.

“Mostly, yeah. I’ve still got to finish the one about Hell and Demons. Not much else to do is there. I mean, who doesn’t even own a TV nowadays?”

“I don’t bring electronics into the shop, they mess with the potency of the magic.” She muttered. “But I’m impressed you’ve gone through so much. I can let you put your knowledge to practice soon, there’s a spare brewing room I don’t use anymore. The second your hands stop shaking, I’ll let you loose in there.”

* * *

****

** Now  **

Dean was in agony.

Not physically. Physical pain just washed off him like water on a kappa’s back; Mystic knows that he’s gone through enough of that shit for it not to faze him anymore. But mentally, emotionally (yes Loki, he does in fact have emotions) the pain was like a living thing burrowing into his chest and having a boxing match with every organ it finds, forcing grunts and groans with each punch. Safe to say he was losing.

Badly.

Sitting at the table in the packaging room Dean let out another moan of regret. The mix of mortification and shock enveloped his brain and forced his posture to curl into itself, placing his head in his hands as his shoulders curled towards his knees. Not even the supportive hum of the ambient magic hovering in the air could ease the shame eating at him.

“So,” Loki started, placing a comforting arm around Dean’s shoulders and offering a replica of the lollipop currently in his own mouth. “You gonna keep beatin’ yourself up over royally screwing up your once in a lifetime reunion with your family?”

Dean let out another sound of agony accompanied with a muffled ‘shut up you fuck’ slipped in, sinking further into his huge ball of shame. The occupants of the room ignored the boxes and bottles weaving through the air above them, seemingly of their own volition to get ready for shipping or restocking. Shrugging, Loki shoves the spare candy into his mouth, years of practice allowing him to masterfully manipulate them in order to speak clearly.

“Oooor,” the god continues, “are you gonna rescue them from your little dungeon and sort all this shit out? Or of course there’s the other option of wiping their memories and sending them off on their little merry way! But you won’t do that cause unlike me you don’t loathe your family and wash your hands of them and everything they represent; which I find stupid since they left you to die and all that, but that’s none of my business.”

“Loki, stop projecting your family bullshit onto mine; your beef with Thor and Odin has nothing to do with my family. But, for the love of the Mystics, how am I supposed to fix this?!” Most of the words were lost to the table his friend was burying his face in, but Loki got the gist. “I blame you for this.”

Supressing the sigh building in his chest, Loki decided to pull out the big guns. Years of friendship with the walking emotional minefield known as Dean had taught him many a thing when it came to avoiding the explosive feelings and forcing the once-human to process shit normally (or as normally as the idiot could manage).

“You, my friend, are letting that noggin’ of yours pull you down. Stop treating them like their opinion’s gonna kill you, they aren’t important enough to hold any power over you. What would Dyani say if she saw you like this?”

“That was low blow.” Dean groaned, but raised his head and began to straighten up which Loki took as a win.

“Yup. So what you gonna do?”

The Shop Keep stretched out his back, relishing in the echoing cracks that danced under his skin and chased away the tension that had been stacking up. The sick look that distorted his friends face and practically screamed “you freaky humans and your disgusting habits” was an added bonus he took way too much joy from.

“I’m going to stop acting like Dean the Hunter. Gotta stop trying to think and move like him. I’m not him anymore.”

* * *

 

Now despite Loki calling the Live Storage his “little dungeon” (which dammit Loki, that’s on the other side of the friggin’ building, stop trying to confuse everyone) it was actually a sweet example of the true expanse of the Mystical arts ability when used right. In his humble opinion it was the most incredible creation ever made so far. Manipulating both space and time was a complicated bit of magic that had taken him month to properly complete and would not have worked had he been a follower of a different magic. As far as he was aware, not even Dyani had accomplished anything similar.

Creating layered dimensions in order to hold habitats for hundreds of different species (both super and natural) was not an easy feat and he had no idea how he managed to actually do it considering he’d been awake for days on end and maybe a little magic drunk nearing the end of the process. The idea itself came to him in one of his more crazy bouts of inspiration.

The self-updating feature (whilst useful for this particular moment) that seemingly appeared by itself was just a little freaky and Dean was pretty sure he’d managed to make the thing at least semi-sentient. Which was turning out to be a bit of a bad habit thinking about it.

Knocking back a conjured mug of chamomile tea, Dean prepared himself for the confrontation. The drink worked quickly, settling peace and harmony into his bones and flushed out the dread and shame that had been stubbornly sticking to his skin. But no matter how much the herbs influenced his mood, there was still the lingering electric nerves that were trying to spread further into his cells.

Wrapping the cosmic energy around his being, Dean carefully manipulated the door to his Dad and brother’s ‘habitat’ into existence. Taking extra time to peel it away from the many other layers (and in no way trying to stall for time).

With a deep breath he walked through the tear in reality.

…

“I have no idea why I’m surprised.” Dean announced to the room, not even trying to keep the bitter amusement out of his voice. He ignored the two occupants’ jumps and defensive positions and let his eyes wander across the room his magic had deemed the Winchester’s ‘natural habitat’.

A stagnant stench of cigarettes sat heavy in the air, polluting each breath he took and mixed nauseously with a hint of strong alcohol and cheap perfume/cologne. It didn’t quite smother the smell of sick and body odour that swam under the plumes of grey and black with speckles of illumination reflected by the aged yellow light hanging above him.

The bar curved into the room, the wood that made up ninety per cent of the building looked dark in the failing light. A mismatch of furniture told the story of the bar, with stools of varying heights and chipped tables strewn about. Scuff marks infested the floor where bar stools were shoved too hard under the weight of angry or tired drunks, too hammered to coordinate their own feet never mind the extra four of their chair.

The lack of noise set it off. There was no clinking of glasses, or tinkling of liquid. No voices in a never ending competition with the music that did not exist.

“Of course you’d feel most comfortable in a bar.” Dean pushed out, his heart heavy with disappointment and unwanted guilt.

“What the Hell Dean?!” The eldest Winchester all but screamed out. He stalked closer to the scarred man, his worn boots slamming on the equally worn floorboards. “The fuck is going on with you, what the hell have you been doing all these years?!”

Dean slowly clenched and unclenched his hands he pinned to his sides, not letting his father get a visible reaction out of him. If his years of dealing with ungrateful customers had taught him anything, it was how to deal with little shits that think they were owed the world because you weren’t able to accommodate the smallest thing out of their outrageous demands.

“Yeah, nice to see you too Dad. I see you’ve been doing well since you left me to be eaten by a werewolf.” His cheery tone grated painfully with the accusing words, managing to shock the words out of the furious hunter.

“How did you survive it?” Softening his expression, Dean faced his younger brother who sounded ten seconds from having a breakdown. “I saw you. Your chest was… there’s no way you could survive that.”

“I didn’t.” The Shop-Keep let the two words sink in, watching in numb sympathy as horror and guilt painted both their faces and their souls. “A passing Mystic found me dying out in the middle of the woods and brought me back. But it left me a little different.”

He had no time to be kind and dance around the elephant in the room. Loki had always said it’s easier to go to the meat of things quickly, it meant it was quicker to blow over and/or decide to dispose of the other.

Though maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to take advice from the god with shit family bonds.

“So you’re a monster now?” the elder man said, his voice deceptively calm. But Dean could see the man’s soul, could see the fury that encompassed the man pulse faster with the new fuel.

“Dad-” Sam tried, taking a step towards the man.

“No Sam, you shut up and stay out of this. Dean, answer me! Are you a monster?” the glare pointed at him might have been intimidating when he was younger, but this Dean had bartered with Death himself and couldn’t find it in him to pretend.

He chuckled with mirth. He had known this was gonna happen. Had known all those years ago, sat crying on Dyani’s crappy old med-bed, his wounds still bleeding yet the fear of his own father overrode the pain.

“I’m not a monster.” He assured, lifting up the shirt that had been hiding the brightly mottled strips of skin and scars. “I’m _the_ monster.”

Not even a beat passed before John’s soul burst into a fiery ball of fury. “Fuck, FUCK! You shouldn’t have come back! I taught you better than to let yourself become a freak! You should have let yourself die like a proper hunter!”

“DAD!” Sam cried, grabbing his father by the shoulder in an attempt to steer him off the warpath.

“No, it’s alright Sammy.” Dean spoke politely as he smoothed his shirt back into place, his expression the epitome of patronising understanding. “I am a monster, and I’m not gonna apologise for it because funnily enough, I actually quite like being alive. So like the _freak_ you’re so sure I am, I’ll be keeping you both here until I decide what to do with you.”

Without letting either men get a word in, Dean pulled his magic around himself and stepped back into his shop and the waiting arms of Loki.

“That bad, huh?” The god mumbled as he took in the haggard frame of his best friend. “Want to go blow some shit up?”

“Fuck yes.”


	8. Finally Getting Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got no excuses other than I'm now a uni student and it's harder yet easier than I thought it would be? 
> 
> tbh time no longer exists for me and I had no clue how long it had actually been since I last updated... sometimes I really just need a good ole kick up the arse to actually get stuff done. (which was supplied by Midnight_Ravencrow this time around)
> 
> I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter, and if you have any suggestions on how I can fix it that would be amazing!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Kudos and comments always make my day!

               If there was anything Dean was thankful to John Winchester for, it would be the ability to multi-task. The old man - forever demanding more than perfection from his eldest son - had spent months forcing the then ten-year-old to perfect the skill to an incredible degree, slowly increasing in difficulty with more severe punishments each time he ultimately failed. He could still feel the slow sink of burning ache digging into his foot after losing grip of his father’s hunting knife. But there was no permanent damage so of course, he was perfectly up to sparring sessions for weeks after.

           It felt like sticking a finger up at the man and all his teachings when he used the hard-earned skill to slice and dice some grindylows, watch the boiling pot of what was the third stage of his concoction to make sure it stayed the pink-tinged black (any other colour at this point meant he had to chuck it and start all over again) and direct his magic into inscribing Celtic runes along the surface a pure iron bowl barely the size of both his hands cupped together.

            If there was anything that pissed the elder Winchester, it was “monster crap” as he had always called it. Even now he could perfectly recite the rant the old man would spit at his sons, word for word about all that the monsters had taken, all that they could take. The background would change, the man himself would change, but there was always the same weight dragging at those words.

             There were times, usually on slow, gloomy days, that he would wonder what would’ve become of him had he stayed with the Winchester’s, no mystics or magics or monster parts. Who would he be? What would he be like? A younger version of his father? Or would he forever have become Daddy’s little soldier without any thought to the creatures he would murder in the name of a hunter’s “justice”?

             If he was being truthful to himself, (which he tried to do every once in a while, Dyani had always said it was good for the mind to be brutally honest) he couldn’t bring himself to regret going on that hunt all those years ago. Couldn’t regret jumping between his brother and the mindless beast; couldn’t regret living the life he had now.

             If there was anything Dean was thankful to Dyani for, it was the ability to be selfish.

            “You really goin’ through with the treatment?” Loki asked, a scowl warping his features to a seriousness Dean had never seen on his friend before. “Cause it looks like they got their own plan all figured out.”

             Dean sighed. He was doing a lot of that lately, “You know as well as I do that their plan is just plain shit and likely to end in some world ending level of crap. And whilst killing the source of the infection would get rid of it, it would do squat to the damage to his mind and body, not to mention his soul.”

           “Yeeees, but why is it your problem all of a sudden? You didn’t poison the kid, nor do you have any lasting ties forcing you out of obligation.”

           “Other than blood.”

            “Ha, Deano, your blood is such a cocktail of fuck, not even the most desperate of vampires would take a drop. Nah, you just trust and hope too easily. And I’ll be there to mop up the blood when you ultimately lose your tether.”

            “I think I have more of a say in whether or not I can handle something,” Dean growled out as he stirred in the chopped grindylows, mentally counting each twist of his silver ladle. Numbers had meaning, and meaning meant power no matter how insignificant. “This; I can handle. And Fuck you, vampires love my blood. I’ve got some pretty pricey trades to prove it.”

              The trickster scrunched his nose as a plume of neon green steam wiggled around the room and stole the heat from the air, creating a mini hailstorm inside the brewing room. A quick flick of Dean’s free, non-stirring wrist collects the frozen droplets into a wooden bowl. A deep groan echoed into the walls and moonlight crept in through the opening skylight and poured lunar energy into the waiting bowl hovering in the air.

               “What the- Deano you do know it’s not even 3 pm yet? And we’re in the middle of summer? Where the hell is this moon coming from?”

               “China. Just a simple transporter modified so I have access to the moon at all times. Or the sun if I need it.”

                “You and I have very different definitions of simple…”

-

               Demon blood infections were nasty things to get but luckily were incredibly rare. Very few demons wanted to create something that could very well grow to be more powerful than the donor; with all the amoral attitude of a demon and the power-drunk overconfidence distinct to humanity.

               In fact, in the eight years, he had been in the business he had only come across two cases. One a baby, not even a year old and relatively simple to deal with considering how recent the infection was. The other a young man, much harder to deal with thanks to the depth of damage caused to his soul that started leaching into his body and mind, creating a separate personality in complete control of his demonic abilities. And that bitch knew how to fight back.

               Dyani had some fun with that one. Though Dean was forced to be the restraint to make sure the bastard stayed within the protection circle and therefore wouldn’t burn the shop down.

               The nasty part is not just the damage it does to the vessel, but also the stubbornness of the damn stuff. It was never an easy task to remove the source and resulting taint from the vessel, and then even harder to encourage the vessel to heal and shake off the years of the supernatural version of drug abuse. If he had to liken it to anything, it would be like trying to get chewing gum out of hair. Possible, but so annoying and slow it makes more sense to cut off the hair and let it grow back. Of course, you can’t do that with a soul, so Dean was restricted to figuring out how to burn it out without also harming the vessel.

               The concoction needed to start the process was difficult enough, though thanks to his years of dabbling in potion making it was simple enough for Dean to make. If a bit tedious considering it takes a week of non-stop observation and manual mixing. In most other creations of the mixture, a whole team of Wiccans would take shifts in the process. But since Dean was the only capable brewer in the shop, it meant non-stop all-nighters. And Loki on the shop floor. Which may have explained the foul mood he was in when visiting his remaining family in their glorified cage.

-

               The headache was enough of a pain without the heavy scent of cigarettes, booze and old, sad, drunk men. So the second Dean took a step into the faux-bar he could feel the prickling of irritation and frustration trying to explode their way out of his hard-earned patience.

               And then, of course, was the fucking hunter extraordinaire John Winchester just heaping on more fuel to the younger’s fire. The Shopkeeper didn’t even try to hear the words that were hurled at him. More focused on the spit and alcohol saturated breath the man was throwing into his face.

He may have been in the supernatural retail industry, but he was not tolerant of shit eating pieces of trash customers (though in this case the man was an unwilling customer but that was just details) who thought he was just there for them to relieve their fucking stress through anger and abuse.

               “Oh shut the fuck up John. I don’t have the time or energy to be dealing with your bullshit.” He snapped. Allowing the agitated ambient magic to steal away the hunter’s words and restrained him firmly on what had to be the most uncomfortable chair in the environment.

               Semi-sentient or not, he loved his damn shop sometimes.

               Dean twisted around to face his younger brother, sat at a small two-seater table looking about as done with his father’s bullshit as Dean felt. The Winchester Patriarch wasn’t even an acquired taste at that point, more of a gross concoction very few people could tolerate whilst it completed its job.

               “I made this for you.” Dean directed at his brother, raising the bottle of deceptively clear liquid. “It’ll start the process of cleaning out that demon blood infection you got going on there.”

               “You said that before, about the demon blood. What do you mean? How am I infected? What is it doing to me?” Sam asked, keeping a wary eye on the concoction and making no move to get closer.

               Dean almost felt like he was having a flashback, the memory of Sam’s incessant questions as a child throwing itself to the forefront of his mind. It was kinda nice to see the giant hadn’t changed as much as he thought. Eight years did a lot, but he guessed it couldn’t change the fundamental parts of a person’s personality.

               “You been having some weird abilities? Visions? Telekinesis? A weird sense for people’s souls and an uncanny ability to identify the demon-possessed?” He took the wide-eyed nod he was given as an indicator to continue. “That’s from the demon blood messing with you. And I say ‘you’ cause it’s messing with everything that makes ‘Sam Winchester’. Your soul, your mind, body. Even your personality and morals are slowly being chipped at and replaced with the demonic essence.”

               “So… so you’re saying I’m infected and being changed? But how was I infected? When?” The sheer confusion and panic were obviously shoved to the wayside as the younger man tried to rationalise everything he was told in his head.

               “From what I can tell it was a fairly old demon.” Dean began, his eye working overtime to see the very smallest of details evident in the blood tainting his brother’s soul. “And the infection is pretty much the same age as you. So my best guess is the night mom was killed. Probably both done by the same demon as they aren’t exactly great with the whole concept of teamwork.”

               The two brothers stubbornly ignored the struggling Winchester still silent and confined to the corner of the room, practically frothing at the mouth. Most likely pissed at the blatant disregard for him and Dean’s almost blasé attitude to the topic of his mother’s death. As though the years of therapy and proper coping techniques to deal with the trauma was supposed to keep the unhealthy anger and hurt from something that happened when he was four.

               Yeah, it hurt he didn’t have more time with her. But the wound was finally just a scar. Still there. Still visible. But not affecting his everyday life.

               “And what will happen when I drink that?” The taller asked. Slowly standing up from his table and took large, measured steps towards the brother he barely recognised.

               “It’ll hurt. Not gonna lie. But it’ll be like pulling out a whole load of splinters stuck in deep. Feels a hell of a lot better than keeping them stuck in. Almost satisfying I was told.”

               “Told?”

               “You aren’t the only one in the world getting dosed up with supernatural crack. Now, are you gonna drink it or not? Cause my bed is calling me and I’m barely standing straight.”

“Fine.” The taller of the two grabbed the bottle, and with no hesitation, dumped the contents down his throat.


End file.
